


Personal space

by emmadelosnardos



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Female Character, Episode: s02e04 Elogium, Episode: s02e08 Persistence of Vision, F/M, Falling In Love, Fantasy, First Time, POV First Person, Reverie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-15
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-02 10:42:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16303646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmadelosnardos/pseuds/emmadelosnardos
Summary: Janeway is fed up with command distance, and decides to revise the crew fraternization policy.





	Personal space

**Author's Note:**

  * For [devovere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/devovere/gifts).



> This work is a gift to my beta, devovere, therefore it is not beta'ed. 
> 
> Devovere and I had a conversation a while ago, the gist of which was that someone as tightly controlled on the exterior as Kathryn Janeway must have a very rich inner fantasy life. This is my attempt to expand upon that idea.
> 
> Set early in Season 2.

God, what I would do for a good fuck right about now.

This whole situation is getting ridiculous. I can’t get through one duty shift without fantasizing inappropriately about some member of my crew. This morning it was B’Elanna: no sooner had she come up from Engineering to share with me the results of her time lapse scans of the spatial anomaly, when I noticed again just how attractive my chief engineer is.

This is pathetic. B’Elanna is at least ten years younger than I am, and she’s never been the object of my fantasies before. So what is going on?

I’m probably ovulating. That must be it. I’ll have to check my medical chart when I get back to my quarters. No way I’m going to pull that up right here on deck, not with Chakotay sitting next to me. What would _he_ think if he knew I was still monitoring my cycles? Would that seem pathetic to him? Would that give him hope?

I have to be honest about the fact that I’m probably never going to see Mark again, probably never going to have children. Keeping track of my cycles is just a habit at this point, but one that’s hard give up.

I can let go of Mark, I can let go of having children, but I can’t bear the thought of never having sex again. For all the cruelty the universe has inflicted on us, stranding us in this far corner of the galaxy, I can’t believe that I have to give up sex on top of everything else.

Two years. Two years on Voyager, and not one lay.

At first, it was easy enough. I’d been on deep space missions before, months at a time separated from Mark. There were so many other things to worry about when we first got stranded out here in the Delta Quadrant, that honestly sex was the least of my concerns.

But then I started to feel it. The thrill of attraction, the awareness of my own body and others’ bodies. The firm set of Chakotay’s shoulders, the fair, arrogant beauty of Tom Paris, even the softly seductive voice of Kes — these things I’ve started to notice more recently, and it’s driving me crazy. I know I’m touching my crew more than usual, too, and I’m starting to think I need to exercise some more restraint. Wouldn’t want Tuvok — or, worse yet, Chakotay — giving me a lecture about personal space.

Personal space. I’m up to _here_ with personal space. Fed up, I mean. I’ve had enough personal space in this captain’s chair, this ready room, these captain’s quarters, to last me a lifetime.

I miss the feel of a warm body next to me at night. I miss someone to admire my negligée, to make jokes with me, to wake me up in the morning when we’ve stayed up far too late making love. I miss talking about the books we’re reading, and our parents’ foibles, and planning vacations together. I miss being touched, and having another bring me to orgasm.

Sure, there’s the holodeck: I’m sure plenty of other captains assigned to deep space wouldn’t hesitate to seek out comfort with a holo-lover. But, as Mark always said, _Holo-sex is hollow sex_. So there.

I have never been this lonely.

To make matters worse, _this_ has to be the most boring duty shift in recent memory. I’m sitting here in my chair, pretending to be listening to Harry and Tom and Tuvok dial in their mundane reports, but there’s nothing interesting happening in this sector, apparently, and I can’t keep my mind from wandering.

Boring, boring, boring.

I am reminded of another recent duty shift, a much more interesting one, in fact. A few weeks ago, Chakotay told me that we might need to update the crew’s fraternization policy. He’d caught a couple kissing in the turbolift.

I couldn’t help but smile at him as he told me the story, caught up as I was with the image he painted for me. I, too, had once been an ensign kissing in a turbolift, and I imagined Chakotay had been as well. How could I deny my crew a chance at happiness, when I knew how much my loneliness was costing me? It made me happy to know that romance was blooming on board, even if it was someone else’s.

But why was Chakotay so preoccupied with this couple? Why had he seemed, at first, to be arguing that we should have a stricter fraternization policy on board our ship?

“The development of intimate relationships might cause us problems that wouldn’t arise in other ships,” he had said. So cool, so professional. I wanted to shake him, I wanted to kiss him.

Was he speaking from experience? I’d heard the rumors about him and Seska, and assumed he was trying to warn me against something similar happening on Voyager. Then I had found myself defending my crew’s right to choose, their right to pair up — my little romantic heart was beating hard — and I thought my first officer would push back, remind me of the risks if we were to allow a looser fraternization policy. But he hadn’t. Instead, he had surprised me by asking me if I included myself in that number — that is, if I would allow myself to find a partner. And then I had wondered, in some astonishment, if his even and cool tone had been a ruse from the beginning; if he had not wanted, after all, to force me to show my hand by pretending to be the more cautious one of the two of us, so that I would be the one to leap to the defense of love. His question to me had displayed his true concern: what would _I_ do, what would _I_ say?

I was surprised by his words, so I answered him like a captain should. “It’s a luxury I can’t afford,” I told him.

Inside, I was angry at him for the subterfuge. He had been angling at something with me for months, and only then had I realized what it was. Well, the goose can give as good as the gander. I teased him mercilessly about his expertise in mating behavior that week. Between those alien life forms that looked like nothing so much as space sperm — I’m sure I heard Harry and Tom use that expression — and the onset of Kes’s puberty, the whole ship seemed primed to be thinking of sex, even if Chakotay hadn’t run into those unfortunate crewmen in the ‘lift.

For me, the preoccupation hasn’t waned. If anything, it’s gotten worse since then.

Easy enough to blame my hormones, but rationally I know it’s not just that. Lust — or love — is never just a chemical reaction. There’s a good bit that my thinking brain has to do with it too, with these damn intrusive fantasies I have nearly every hour…

And as attractive as B’Elanna is, or any of the other younger members of my crew, there is no one I lust after more than my First Officer.

Another wholly inappropriate confession. It sounds terrible when I put it like that. But I _do_ lust after him — I’ve lusted after him practically since the moment he came on to my viewscreen. Or even earlier, to be honest. The first time I read his dossier and saw the images of him over the years — the bright-eyed recruit from Dorvan V, the Starfleet graduate, the ensign, the lieutenant, the lieutenant-commander — I was struck by the progression of time as evidenced in those Starfleet holos, the clear growth from boy to man. I had fallen a little in love with him then, too, when I read his letter of resignation, clearly laying out the reasons his conscience would not allow him to continue to enforce Federation law. Chakotay has always been a noble figure, and I have always hoped that I will be given my own moment of splendor someday, my chance to defend him in a Federation court.

What will I tell them? That Chakotay has served me willingly, competently, wholeheartedly? That seems hardly a sufficient description, even though I still feel like I know so little of him. I am certain that he is responsible for how easily our two crews have melded, I’ve sensed his influence in the friendly asides that crew members give me, the assurances of both Maquis and Starfleet satisfaction on board _Voyager_. I know that I would not have made it as far as I have, with my humor and wit still intact, if I had not had him to laugh at my jokes, to make sure I took my leave time, to finish up those reports I had neglected.

I do not know now if we will ever make it back to a Federation court. And that’s the big bet, now, isn’t it? If I fraternize with my First Officer, and we get back to Earth, I could very well be sanctioned for sexual harassment of a subordinate. Forget that it would be mutual — I know what Starfleet protocol says on the matter, and even though it’s vague, there are more than a few admirals who would love to get me on that charge. Especially if that subordinate happens to be an enemy of the Federation.

And if I _don’t_ act on my desires — if I let this wave swell between us without ever breaking — we may be out here for years to come. Long years, lonely years. I don’t think I can handle that, either — how many years without sex is it reasonable to expect from a woman of my age?

I will be thirty-eight at my next birthday.

That number is another thing that’s hard to face, when Mark and I were trying to get pregnant for most of my thirty-fifth year. Even with medical technology being what it is, I’ve never wanted to be an elderly mother, and I wanted to try getting pregnant the old-fashioned way. Thirty-five had seemed like the perfect moment: I had just been promoted to the captaincy, Mark had just published another book, even our dog was about to have puppies. I had climbed the Starfleet ladder and discovered it wasn’t everything I wanted after all, so I had finally taken the plunge and gone off my inhibitors while I was working out of San Francisco those six months before Voyager’s launch. It was an easy time of it — visit the ship-docks in the morning to see the progress on my ship, teach a few classes at the Academy, serve on the Starfleet Scientific Committee’s grant review board — and have sex with Mark. Lots of sex, to make up for postings away from Earth, to get a jumpstart on the baby.

Voyager’s mission to the Badlands was supposed to be a couple weeks, max, and then they’d scheduled us for a few more of these short jaunts around the Federation, trips that would allow me to see Mark on a pretty regular basis, hopefully try the baby-making again since that first round, while enthusiastic, hadn’t borne any fruit. And if making babies the old-fashioned way didn’t work, well, there were any number of fertility doctors in the Bay who could pretty much guarantee the date of conception.

Of course, _Voyager_ went after the _Val Jean_ , and I haven’t seen Mark since.

So here I am in the Delta Quadrant, to all intents and purposes a single woman, approaching thirty-eight, and fantasizing about no one as much as my mysterious, definitely off-limits, definitely interested First Officer.

I told him that I was holding out hope for Mark, but that was a laughable lie. I’m certain Mark has given me up for dead. There’s no sign that we’ll get back to the Alpha Quadrant any time soon, and I’d be a fool to expect Mark to wait for me. A lot can happen in two years.

Two years are long enough, for instance, to fall in love with one’s First Officer.

It happened so slowly, I barely realized that’s what it was. From the beginning I noticed how much I admired him, even more than I had expected to, and that surprised me; I am not easily impressed. Then I began to look forward to talking to him, to the routine debriefings we would share in the privacy of my ready room. He was wiser than Cavit, less arrogant than most of the men I had served with, and he knew how to listen as well as to talk, a rare quality in any gender. I found myself initiating working lunches and dinners with him, the lack of a captain’s dining room the excuse for meeting in our quarters, just to carry on our endless conversations. If he had to cancel, or if I learned he was running his exercise routines with someone else, I became jealous. It took me a couple of weeks to realize that’s what it was, because it seemed so ridiculous that I could be jealous of someone who was, to all intents and purposes, pressed into serving me.

For a long time, I still thought I was in love with Mark. It seemed natural that I would be: after all, we had known each other since we were children, we’d been together for almost five years, and we were even planning a family together. Mark is the constant I’ve counted on for much of my life, the friend I always return to, so it didn’t surprise me at first that I spent so little time thinking about him in the Delta Quadrant. Mark was far away, unchanging and unconsidered, when there were so many things in the Delta Quadrant to take up my full attention.

It was a few months ago when I finally realized that I had fallen in love with Chakotay. And I thinkhe might feel similarly, from the way I catch him looking at me when he thinks I don’t notice; from the tone in his voice when he chastises me for my lack of sleep, gentleness and concern and love all wrapped into one; and from the way he sometimes looks like he wants to hug me, or kiss my cheek, or tell me I’m beautiful, when the door opens to his quarters and he invites me in for dinner, for the date that is not quite a date.

I could accept a platonic romance with my XO, if only the sex didn’t matter. But after two years, I’m so tightly wound up that the mere suggestion from him that I consider a more lenient fraternization policy has put my panties in a twist.

Two years. That reminds me: Chakotay is two years older than I am — we were at the Academy at the same time — why did I never run into him before?

 _Because, Kathryn,_ I remind myself, _you were hanging out with the other ‘Fleeter brats, not with scholarship kids from the border colonies._

It’s so pleasant to think about the Commander like this, knowing that no one on the bridge (except maybe Tuvok), has the least knowledge of my private thoughts. The man in question is sitting next to me, his eyes focused on a PADD in front of him, seemingly lost in a departmental report. I wonder what he would think if he knew that I spend boring shifts daydreaming about him.

He’s reading a PADD, and I want to know more about his experience at the Academy, about his experience in Starfleet. He has to know that I’ve read his file — does he know that I know he’s read mine, too? I gave him access to it and to pretty much all the other personnel files when I made him my First Officer. It felt like an intimate gesture, allowing him access to my file when that’s not standard protocol. But he has never mentioned it. I wouldn’t even be sure he’s read it, if I hadn’t checked the access logs. But he has read it. Boy, has he read it. He had that file open nearly every day in the first month on the job. Was I really such a hard nut to crack? I would have preferred he had come to me directly, instead of him trying to figure out the captain from her personnel file.

But then, hadn’t I done the same to him? I’d had a head start on it, to be sure, but I still peruse those files from time to time, whenever he puzzles me.

I wish Staadi were here. I miss her more than anyone else we have lost since coming to the Delta Quadrant. We were posted together on the _Al-Batani_ , and she was the closest thing to a friend that I had on _Voyager_. Although she wasn’t a counselor herself, like many Betazoids, Staadi would have been the perfect person to counsel me on my feelings for my First Officer. I try to imagine now what she might say.

“You know how you feel about him, Kathryn,” she’d say. She always called me ‘Kathryn’ when we were off duty, even though I outranked her. “What is holding you back?”

“I — I...” I don’t know what to say to her, even in my imagination.

“Do you feel guilty about Mark?” she asks.

“No,” I answer honestly. Mark has always been pragmatic: he would have moved on, and would have expected me to do the same.

“Is it protocol, then?”

“Partly. If I make the first move, it could be constituted as harassment.”

“Do you think Chakotay would view it as harassment?”

“No!” I blurt out.

The real Chakotay is looking over at me, a startled look on his face. I have just spoken out loud on the bridge, cried “No!” to my long-deceased pilot.

“Is everything alright, Captain?” he asks coolly, in that impartial voice of his.

“Perfectly alright,” I answer back, straightening my uniform. “Just thinking out loud. Delta Quadrant gets to you, sometimes.”

He laughs at my poor joke. “Sounds like you need a break,” he observes. “Dinner?”

“Tonight?” I squeak. My voice doesn’t usually sound that high, but the tension is getting to me. Of course he means tonight. Or tomorrow night — what does it matter, when you’re stranded for the rest of your life on this bloody ship? Tonight then. If I can pull myself together in time.

* * *

“You asked me,” I start, cautiously. We are sitting across from each other at the table in his quarters, just wrapping up dinner. He has served me another sumptuous meal, a four-course vegetarian banquet from Japan. I wonder how many replicator rations it has cost him, and if he knows what it sounds like to the crew on the bridge when he invites me to dinner. “You asked me if the — more _lenient_ — fraternization policy would apply to myself.”

“I did,” he confirms. “That is — I thought you might let yourself — but you’ve made it abundantly clear....” He trails off, dips the napkin to his mouth, and looks up at me across the table.

“What if I didn’t exclude myself from the policy?” I ask, taking a risk. “Speaking hypothetically, of course.”

“I thought you had a fiancé back home,” he says, still cautious. “And a ship to run.”

“But you’d like me to include myself in the policy. Allow myself to fraternize, too.” I feel my cheeks beginning to flush, but I meet his gaze.

“Yes, Captain, if you feel it’s appropriate. Just a suggestion. We’re going to be out here a long time, and I’d hate for you to be alone the whole journey.” I am already more lonely than he knows, but now is not the time to mention that.

“And just what is your interest in my well-being?” I ask, rather more sharply than I intended.

He looks up at me in surprise. “Do I have to have a reason?” he responds. “You’re the captain, I’m the First Officer. It’s my job to look after the well-being of the ship.”

“And that includes seeing to my personal life?” I wonder how he will answer. Maybe I’m not being fair to him, but he was the one who had brought up the issue in the first place.

“I don’t want to presume,” he says. “If I’m out of line —”

“No?” I say archly. “But you are, Commander. You have presumed. So tell me: if the crew starts to pair off, just who would be the appropriate partner for the captain?”

He glares at me and remains silent. I lean across the table to refill his water glass.

“Don’t do this,” he says quietly, gripping my wrist. “Don’t ask me this if you don’t want to hear it.” I wrench free of his hand and sit back in my seat.

Then, with all the gentleness I can muster, I speak. “I want to hear it. I _need_ to hear it. Because I can’t say it first.”

His open hand lies on the table. I reach over and place my palm in his. “The only truly appropriate person,” he begins, in a rehearsed sort of tone, “would be someone who was similar in rank. Someone who carried the same responsibilities, the same burden as the captain. Someone she wouldn’t outrank so much that an impartial observer might think she was taking advantage.”

“Do you think I’m taking advantage?” I rub my fingers against his palm and he shudders.

“No,” he says softly. “Not exactly. But I do wish that you’d be honest with me, Kathryn.”

He has never called me Kathryn before. It tugs at my heart to hear his voice say my name. Another thing I have missed — someone to call me by my true name.

“Chakotay—” I begin. “Chakotay —. You have to say it first.” Now I notice that I’m trembling too, and my whole face and neck are flushed hot.

“Or what?” he asks, looking up at me, our hands still touching.

“You know what it will look like.”

He is silent. Then, very cautiously: “And if I want you to take advantage?”

I shake my head. “Even so.”

He takes a deep breath. “ _I_ would be someone who’s appropriate. Tuvok would be appropriate. Probably the doc too, but I doubt you’d go for a holographic relationship. Some of the other ranking bridge officers: B’Elanna, or Paris. Then there’s Kes or Neelix, they are outside of the command structure.”

“But who would _you_ pick for me?” I ask, pressing my case. I have never seen him blush before, but he is now.

“I’d volunteer myself,” he says. His eyes are dark and serious. I want to know what he is thinking.

“You’d _volunteer_?” I say. Surely he can do better than that. I’m almost insulted.

“Are we talking about duty, or pleasure?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

“About _pleasure,_ you infuriating man! About yours, and mine! Together, preferably!” I couldn’t take it anymore. He was such a tease.

“Ah, in that case…” He trails off, then stands and walks around the table. He leans down next to me and whispers in my ear. “I’d like to proposition the captain.” He touches my shoulder, runs his fingers down my arm. “For the record, I’d like to state that this is entirely my own initiative. The captain shares none of the responsibility.”

I moan a little. How marvelous that sounds, to have none of the responsibility. I lean back against him, laying my head against his shoulder. How I want this man!

It’s not just a two-year itch, I think; I’d want him anywhere, in any quadrant. It’s a far, far better thing I met him here, or who’s to say where things would have ended up back home.

He is kissing my neck now, and I feel his fingers lightly grazing my cheek, my jaw. I let my head arch back against him, exposing all of my neck to him. He takes my chin in one hand and turns my head around, so we are facing each other. Then he kisses me.

God! It has been far too long since I have done this, since I have been kissed by anyone. The angle is wrong at first, until I twist around a bit to square my torso against his, rising slightly from my chair. He puts his arms around my waist and lifts me to standing between kisses. I slip easily into his arms, and suddenly I am surrounded by him, by Chakotay, my second in command, this man I cannot get enough of. I am so grateful to him, all of a sudden: for this contact, yes, for reminding me of what it feels like to be desired. But I am also grateful to him for all the other ways he has cared for me since our crews were thrown together: the extra shifts he has taken so I can rest, the rations he saves so I can have more coffee, the minor crew conflicts he resolves before I ever hear of them. A hundred small gestures that add up. I don’t know when it was exactly that I fell in love with him — but as he kisses me, I am certain that this is what I am feeling for him.

His mouth is sweet and skilled, yet he seems to be taking his time, barely opening his mouth, letting his lips do the kissing. I want to feel more of him, so I open my mouth and let my tongue slip past his full lips, searching, tasting him.

“Just how far do you intend for this to go?” he asks me, pulling back slightly. His breath comes quickly and there are small beads of sweat at his temples. I bring my hands behind his head and meet his gaze.

“Do you have any idea how long it has been?” I ask him, and instantly I realize that it’s the wrong thing to say, that I should have finished that sentence in some other way. But telling him that it’s been so long that I’ve wanted _him_ , in particular, makes me feel too vulnerable, and I remain silent. I wish I could retract my words, but already his eyes are clouding over. I think I’ve lost him, but then he speaks.

“Sounds like you could use a good fuck,” he says. It is so close to what I have been telling myself all week, that it makes me wonder how transparent I am to my crew. It’s so close to what I’ve been telling myself, and yet I know it’s not the whole story. It’s not only about the sex anymore. I wonder if he knows this too.

“Mmm,” I murmur, a noncommittal response.

“Captain needs to let her hair down,” he says, his fingers in my actual hair, seeking out the pins to loosen my bun. It comes down swiftly and I sigh in pleasure at the relief, a weight lifted. I shake my head and feel the locks hit my shoulders. Chakotay runs his fingers through my hair, then begins to knead my scalp as he keeps talking to me. “Just tell me what you want from me,” he says, and his voice is hesitant, at odds with the confidence of his movements.

My mouth is dry. How can I tell him what I want? I already explained this to him, _he_ needs to take the lead in this. But he remains his courteous self, waiting for my permission. I know that if I tell him this was all a mistake and walk out of his quarters, he will never mention it again.

But this is not a mistake. And this is not just about scratching an itch. But I don’t know if I have the courage to tell him all that, not when I’ve already let things go much further than I’d thought of doing.

He rescues me by speaking again, cruder than I expect from him, even if both of us are far off script by now. “Tell me what you want, Kathryn. Do you want to come quickly, or do you want me to draw it out until you are begging for it?” I take a sharp breath inwards; I had not realized how much I wanted to hear these kinds of suggestions from him. “Do you want me to use my mouth first, or can you get off from penetration alone?” Usually I need a lot more than penetration to come, but with the way he is touching me and the things he is saying to me, I already feel the moisture gathering between my legs. It wouldn’t surprise me if he gets me off with his words alone. I don’t think I’ll be able to last long, but that’s also too embarrassing to confess to him.

Things feel out of my control, and that is totally unexpected. I thought that when I came to him tonight, that I would have to tell him what I want, and that we would talk about it, and then probably leave it for a while, let both of us get used to the idea. Instead, he’s acting as though he has known all along. It is incredibly arousing to wonder how long he has been fantasizing about this, too.

“I’d like you to surprise me,” I say, and I know it’s what I need now, to let him lead this thing between us. Later we can talk about what it means. For now I am desperate to know what he will do.

Suddenly he is taking my wrists and walking me backwards into his bedroom. The bed is neatly made, hospital corners and all, sign of the good officer that he is. I am facing the bed and about to kneel on it when he comes up behind me and reaches his hand around to the zipper on my jacket. In one swift motion he lowers the zipper and helps me to shrug the jacket off my shoulders. I’ve only worn a tank underneath, and now his hands are at the tank, pulling it out of my waistband and up and over my head. He is kissing my neck again, soft, teasing kisses as his hands come around and cup my breasts through my bra. I reach back to open the clasp, loosening the garment as his fingers find my nipples. They are sensitive, almost too sensitive to the touch — _that’s what you get for waiting so long, Kathryn,_ I think to myself, and I yelp when he begins to rub his palms over them. I pull away slightly and he stills his hands.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says, and there is wonder in his voice.

“You didn’t hurt me,” I said. “It’s just — it’s been a while.” There. I’ve said it again, pointed out how long it has been. I’m afraid of what he might think, I’m afraid of hurting his feelings, but I feel his mouth smiling against my shoulder.

“I’ll be gentle,” he promises me. Then, “Are you always so sensitive?” He is stroking my breasts softly now, wide circles without touching the areolae, and I turn around in his arms so that I can kiss him again.

We kiss hungrily, deeply, for several minutes. Then he reaches for my waistband to loosen my trousers. I help him pull them off, then sit down on the bed and lean back on my hands to watch him undress. With his eyes on mine, he begins to remove his clothing. Like me, he’s only wearing a tank top underneath his Starfleet jacket, but I’ve only ever seen him in a tank a couple of times, when he’s coming out of the holodeck after a workout program. I’m struck by the novelty of seeing so much of his bare skin. He seems utterly unself-conscious as he sheds the rest of his clothes. In contrast, I’m very aware of how exposed I am to him, my breasts jutting upwards slightly with the angle, my nipples erect in the cool air.

When he is standing before me in just briefs, I reach for his waist and pull him towards me. His skin is softer than I had anticipated from a man, and almost hairless, except for a dark line of hair leading downwards. I dip my tongue into his navel and he lets out a deep breath. “Gods, Kathryn, if you only knew—”

Then he is pulling me to my feet again, his mouth on mine, his hands back on my breasts. “You are a beautiful woman,” he is saying. “Even more than I had imagined.” His words make me blush again, but this time I feel no shame in it. I want to be beautiful for him. I want him to know that I have saved this part of myself for him, only for him: it’s only ever been him, ever since we left Earth. “Even if we never do this again,” he is saying. _Oh god, he doesn’t want to do this again?_ “I want to remember this.” He draws back and looks me over again, then tugs at the band of my panties as he kneels at my feet. He slowly pulls the panties down my legs, and then gently lifts first my right foot, then my left, helping me to step out of them. I am finally naked before him.

He rises again and leads me to the bed. As we tumble down together, I reach for his briefs and help him to pull them off. He is lying on top of me now, one of his legs between my own. There is so much bare skin on skin, intoxicating me with his proximity. I open my legs slightly and feel his erect penis bounce against my thigh. I want him so badly, and it would be so easy to shift a little bit, maneuver him in place with my hips. But before I can move he is kissing my breasts and I can’t think, I can’t move, I never want to move from this glorious position on his bed.

When he finishes with my breasts, I am panting and keening, but he gives me no rest. Instead, his mouth moves down my torso, kissing my sternum, my ribs, my navel, and the soft skin beneath my navel. I open my legs slightly in anticipation of where he is going. He places his hands underneath my hips and lifts me up slightly so that my pelvis is jutting out towards him. Then with gentle fingers he opens my folds. I feel a trickle of moisture slide out and I look away, suddenly embarrassed by the eagerness of my body.

When he lowers his mouth to my pubis, everything slides into place. _This_ is what I have been waiting for from him, this perfect attention to my pleasure. What surprises me is how _good_ he is at it, for a man, and how much he seems to _enjoy_ it. I usually like to lie back and focus on my own pleasure when someone is doing this to me, but right now I can’t stop watching his face. His expression is rapt, totally engaged in what he is doing, and his dark eyes dart back and forth from my body to my face. When his tongue touches my clitoris, I cry out and try to pull away slightly; it’s too much, too soon, I’ll be coming before I can say—

And then I am coming, coming, large rings of pleasure coursing through my body. My lips, my nipples, my toes are awash in the orgasm. I am calling out his name, and telling him to keep going, and suddenly there is a finger in me, something to clench around, but it’s not enough, it’s not enough. I’ve never had a double orgasm before, but I feel like I need more, I need to keep going. My mouth opens and shuts like I’m gasping in air or looking for the words to say.

Then Chakotay is over my body and I am touching all of that soft skin again. I want him in me, and I want it hard, so I reach between his legs and take his penis in my hands. I lead him into me, but it’s too much, it’s been too long, and I cry out in pain.

“Kathryn!” he says. He takes my face in his hands and stares at me, searching my face. “I’m sorry,” he says. He’s in me still, probably halfway in, but he is a large man and I haven’t been with anyone in a long time.

“Just give me a minute,” I say, exhaling sharply as my muscles adjust to the feeling of flesh inside me once again. Then something shifts, I feel a slick heat between my folds, and he slides into me as easily as if we were old lovers.

Now _that_ is a feeling that is hard to replicate with one’s own hands: the girth of a man inside me, stretching me out, thrusting and pounding and touching me in just that way, rubbing against my lips, my clit, bringing me to another peak. I can’t stop looking at Chakotay’s face, at the hard line of his mouth as he works himself towards his own pleasure. I wonder what he’s thinking about, if he knows that I’m going to come again, or if he is just focusing on his own sensations. It makes me want to see him masturbating, to see if there’s a difference in his facial expressions when it’s just him alone versus him here, now, with me. I want there to be a difference, so I run my finger over his cheek, make him open his eyes and look at me.

“Chakotay,” I say. “Chakotay—” And that is enough, because he is thrusting harder and faster, and I feel the tension rise in me again. It’s not as fierce as the first time, it’s more like a subtle wave passing through me, but it’s undeniably another orgasm. He keeps thrusting and comes shortly after I do, his movements slowing inside me. He strokes my hair. I kiss his mouth.

I want to tell him that I love him. Sex always makes me maudlin. But he is starting to pull out of me, and I can’t bear the loss of connection. “Chakotay,” I say, wrapping my arms around his chest, lifting my hips up towards him. “Stay here a moment longer,” I say.

He sighs deeply. “Kathryn—”

“Yes?” I wriggle a little, maintaining the connection between us.

He shakes his head, then kisses my mouth lightly. “I still can’t believe it,” he says. “Thank you. Even if you can’t — even if this isn’t — ”

My heart aches. I want to reassure him, but I don’t know where to begin, don’t even know what this is or what it can be.

At last he pulls himself out of me. He rolls over on the bed so that we are not touching anymore. I can still feel the heat from his body, can feel the wetness he left between my legs.

“Was this just a way end a dry spell?” he says, and I know what it must have taken him to ask it.

I can’t lie to him, not after what we have just shared together.

“No,” I begin. “No. That’s all I thought it was, at first, but then—” I trail off.

He grabs my hand. “When?” he asks. “When?”

I pull his hand to rest over my heart. “It’s been there since nearly the beginning.”

“What has changed now?” he says.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “It was just — time.”

He is silent for a long moment. Then, “Is this something that can ever happen again?”

I think of all the reasons why this never should have happened. And I think of all the reasons I love this man, and I can’t say no to him. But I also can’t make him any promises right now, not this early in our journey.

“I think perhaps it could happen again,” I say slowly. “Not as a regular occurrence, but perhaps —”

“As a way to let off steam?” he suggests lightly. It’s not what I would have said, but it’s easier to agree to that, than for either of us to admit that this has gone far beyond lust.

“As a very private — _arrangement_ ,” I say. It’s not what I want from him and I know it’s not what he wants to give me. But it’s the only way this can work.

“I think I can live with that,” he says. I want to shake him, want to tell him he’s a fool for settling for less than everything. I’ve never been good with boundaries and I have no illusions that we’ll be able to keep this thing between us in a tidy box. But we need to try, for as long as we can, before it destroys us.

“I won’t ever say it again,” he says, taking a deep breath. “But I want you to know that I love you, Kathryn.” _Ah, he goes for the jugular! How can I deny him anything after that?_ I begin to move restlessly, pushing his hand away. He touches my shoulder, shushes me. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I won’t let it get in the way—”

“Can’t you see it’s _already_ in the way?” I choke out. “Can’t you see I feel the same? And can’t you see it can never be anything more than _this_ — this night of playing at being lovers, this kind of secret encounter?” I want to cry, it’s so unfair.

“I accept that,” he says gently. “I accept all of that.”

“But how _long_ can you accept that?” I ask him, tears rising to my eyes. “How long before you want to be with someone who can give you a real relationship — a family, even children?” My words rush out of me, I feel the need to get them out as quickly as possible, to settle this once and for all.

His voice sounds sad. “Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t know.” I wait for him, and he continues. “But whatever you say, Kathryn, we weren’t playing at anything tonight.”

I want him to be angry at me, angry enough to make saying goodbye more tolerable. But I’ve already hurt him tonight, probably in more ways that I can imagine, and I can’t bear the thought of hurting him anymore.

I roll over on my side and face him. I am aware of my nudity, of how distant I now feel from him despite our recent intimacy. “You’re right,” I say. “I wasn’t playing at anything tonight. But you need to understand — this is all I can give you.”

“I’ve already said that I can accept that, Kathryn.” He pauses. “Can you?”

“I have to,” I say, willing him to understand my words as an apology. I wish things were simpler between us. I wish we weren’t stranded who knows how many light-years from home. I wish we didn’t have to contend with the chain of command. I wish this were something we didn’t have to hide or constrain. But all my wishing doesn’t change the fact that I am his commanding officer, and I must not let this thing between us distract us from getting our crew  back to the Alpha Quadrant.

Putting my uniform back on and leaving his quarters without kissing him goodbye is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Every nerve in my body is screaming for me to get back in there, to join him again in his bed and let sweet sleep take over. But it’s already late, and combadges don’t lie: any of the crew could easily verify where I’ve been. If this is to work, it has to be within limits, and for now those limits include no sleepovers, no civilian clothing, nothing so frequent that either one would think the other has a claim on them. I’ve had this kind of relationship before, as an ensign and a lieutenant, and I know the rules. I hope Chakotay does, too.

But — he said he loves me, and I told him the same. How deluded must we both be to think we can keep this wrapped up?

* * *

I plan out our next encounter, try to find an M-class planet safe enough for the two commanding officers to take leave at the same time. But weeks pass and no such planet appears. Before long we are entering Bothan space, where this new, precious thing I feel for Chakotay is tested by the recriminations hurled at me by a hallucination of Mark. Knowing that it is a hallucination does nothing to assuage my own guilt, the return of the past come to haunt me for several days.

Chakotay does not ask me at first what I have seen, and I am relieved to talk about it, however obliquely, with B’Elanna instead.

Then one night in the same mess hall, impossibly late and not nearly private enough, we begin to talk about the Botha.

“The worst thing,” he says, “was I began to wonder if other things weren’t also hallucinations.”

“What other things?” I ask him.

“When you came to me,” he says, his eyes looking for mine. “That night.” I reach across the table; my instinct is to take his hand, but there are some crewmen across the mess. I rest my hand next to his instead.

“That wasn’t a hallucination, Commander,” I say.

“How do I know?” he asks, almost desperate.

“Because a hallucination can’t be shared,” I respond, rising from the table. “Or repeated.” I pause to let my words sink in for him. “Join me?” I ask in a low voice. He walks out of the mess hall a few steps behind me.

This time we go to my quarters. 

**Author's Note:**

> I now realize that at this point in the series they are supposed to have been in the Delta Quadrant for only ten months, but for the sake of the narrative and for the time I imagine it would take Janeway to realize she’s in the love Chakotay, I’m sticking with two years here.


End file.
